CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
I would have been wrapped in his arms, no doubt, if I had stayed with him. Instead, the silver tray sits abandoned on the chair by the door, untouched.
I’m curled up beneath the covers wearing nothing but an old retro Nirvana t-shirt—the same one I’d been wearing the day I saw the auction flyer taped up at the laundromat. The day everything changed.
It was the only piece of clothing the Warden allowed me to keep when I arrived. One item from my old life.
Last week, he teased me about the shirt like he found it amusing that I still slept in it.
I keep myself covered only by the thin fabric now, waiting in the silence in case he decides to come calling.
There are so many rules in this house, but the one that settles beneath my skin the fastest is this: I am not allowed to keep anything from before.
When I first arrived, I asked to go back to my apartment for a few things. Clothes. Books. Pieces of a life that still feels close enough to touch.
He said no.
I asked if one of the guards can retrieve them instead.
Again, no.
Everything I owned disappeared after that, replaced piece by piece with things he chose himself—dresses, shoes, jewelry, even the products lined up in the bathroom, like my preferences never existed before him.
And my undergarments?
Those were thrown out the first night without discussion. Without explanation.
Since then, he never replaced them.
Never offered to.
Like the absence of them is just another rule I’m expected to stop questioning.
Sleep pulls me under faster than usual, and it is then the dreams begin .
The dream washes over me like wildfire—hot, all-consuming, impossible to resist.
I stood in the compound, alone, barefoot on the cracked concrete. The air pulsed with heat and memory—the sharp bite of gasoline, sweat, and blood-slicked control. The shadows shifted.
And then he was there.
Montgomery stepped from the darkness like a reckoning. His shoulders filled the space, posture relaxed but dangerous, like he knew exactly how this dream would end. His eyes—dark and feral—locked onto mine, and the heat in them made my knees weaken.
He moved closer, slow and certain, and I felt his body before he even touched me. The heat of him—thick and electric—wrapped around me like smoke.
His fingers brushed my jaw, the rough pads dragging across my skin with admiration and promise.
And then I smelled him.
Cedarwood clung to him, warm and earthy, grounded like the man himself. Beneath it, clean sweat and something sharper—gun oil, maybe, or the sterile burn of tension. The faintest trace of whiskey lingered on his breath, not enough to intoxicate, just enough to sting like truth.
It was the scent of long nights and discipline, of grit and sacrifice and something almost tender, buried so deep it barely surfaced.
He smelled like regret. Like danger. Like the kind of man who held secrets tighter than lovers.
And for some twisted reason… It made me lean in closer.
Then his mouth was on mine.
He kissed me like he was starving for it—tongue slipping between my lips with slow, filthy possession. I moaned into his mouth, my body surged against him, pressed to the hard line of his chest, his abs, the thick bulge already strained behind his zipper.
His hands were everywhere—gripping my hips, sliding beneath my shirt, calloused palms mapping the softness of my skin. He groaned when he found I wasn’t wearing anything underneath.
“You dream about me like this, baby?” He growled, voice thick with lust. “So fucking wet for me, and I haven’t even touched you yet.”
He spun me around and slammed me hard against the cold concrete wall. The rough surface scraped against my breasts and cheek, sending a sharp chill racing over my skin. Behind me, his body burned like a furnace, pressing into me with raw hunger and heat.
In one brutal motion, he yanked my shirt up and over my head, tossing it aside. His mouth was already on me—hot, wet, and ravenous—trailing open-mouthed kisses and fire down my spine, teeth grazing my skin as he went.
One strong hand wrapped around my throat from behind, fingers pressing just enough to make my pulse thunder beneath his palm as he pulled me back against his hard body. At the same time, his other hand shoved between my thighs, cupping my soaked pussy possessively.
His thick fingers parted my slick entrance slowly and purposefully, spreading my wetness as he stroked me with filthy confidence, teasing me and circling my swollen clit until my knees buckled and a desperate moan tore from my lips.
I was trapped between ice and fire, completely at his mercy.
“God, you’re dripping,” he muttered against my ear. “You want me to fuck you here, where anyone could walk by?”
“Yes,” I whispered, breathless, grinding against his hand. “Please, Montgomery…”
He made a raw, broken sound—half curse, half prayer—and dropped to his knees behind me. Before I could even draw a breath, his strong hands gripped my ass and spread me wide open, exposing every slick, aching inch of me.
His mouth was on me instantly.
A hot, hungry groan vibrated against my pussy as he devoured me. His tongue dragged through my soaked pussy in long, broad strokes, then flicked rapidly over my swollen clit with devastating precision.
He licked me like a man starved—deep, filthy, and relentless—sucking my sensitive flesh into his mouth, circling, teasing, then plunging his tongue inside me.
My palms slapped against the cold wall as my legs began to shake violently. Moans spilled from my throat, loud and shameless, each one louder than the last as pleasure tore through me in ruthless waves.
He held me open and worshipped me with his mouth like I was the only thing that mattered in the world.
“Look at you,” he said, standing again, dragging his tongue across his bottom lip. “Fucking made for this.”
He unzipped his pants and freed his cock, thick and flushed, the tip already glistening.
He didn’t wait. He didn’t tease.
He pressed the head to my entrance and drove into me in one smooth, brutal thrust.
I cried out—his name, a broken sound of surrender—as he filled me completely, stretching me open with pure, punishing pleasure.
He fucked me hard. Each thrust forced me up the wall, then dragged me back down onto him. His hands locked around my hips like manacles, guiding me, using me, claiming me.
“You’re mine,” he growls, voice like gravel and thunder in my ear. “You’ll never belong to anyone else.”
And something in me still registers him as the only one who ever felt like an escape—like safety I was never supposed to trust.
I could only nod, gasping, crying out again and again, each sound swallowed by the compound’s endless night.
“Montgomery—please—”
“Come for me, baby.”
And I did.
I came hard, body pulsing around him, shaking with it. He followed a heartbeat later, grinding deep as he spilled into me with a guttural moan, his body slamming against mine one last time.
He stayed there, breath heaving against my shoulder, cock still buried deep. His hand curved protectively over my stomach, anchoring me in the haze.
“Next time,” he whispered, nuzzling the back of my neck. “It’s a bed. My bed.”
His words curled through me, sinful and soft, as the dream began to pull away—slow and cruel.
I wake up with his name on my lips.
“Montgomery…”
The soft creak of the door sounds across the room, followed by the tray being quietly lifted and carried away.
I don’t bother checking the clock. I don’t want to know how long I’ve been asleep. I don’t want to face the quiet.
Instead, I slip back beneath the covers, closing my eyes again, desperate to find Montgomery still waiting in the dark.
*****
“No, please stop, I beg of you!”
The agonizing sounds from my past jerk me awake—metal scraping, harsh voices, a door slamming shut.
But I’m heavier, slower, fogged with exhaustion that’s deeper than sleep.
And this isn’t my bed.
I’m spread out, limbs pulled wide and fastened like an X—wrists and ankles bound, every tendon stretches tight against the unforgiving restraints.
I’m standing, or nearly. My legs tremble beneath me, muscles trembling with the effort to hold steady.
A blindfold presses heavy against my eyes, swallowing all light and hope.
The air is thick—stale sweat, cold concrete, something sterile lurking beneath it all.
Another place. Another nightmare.
And I’m already losing the fight before it’s even begun.
“Good morning, Starling.” The Warden’s voice slices through the silence, cold and steady.
“Sir,” I answer, hesitation threading through my words.
“No! No!” My own desperate cries echo back at me, coming from a speaker somewhere in the room.
“I want you to remember what you went through...and where you are now.”
“Sir, I don’t understand.”
A feather-light touch traces down my arm to my fingertips—chilling in its gentleness.
“How dare you come into my bed…into my house…” His voice dropped to a deadly whisper.
His voice is calm, but every word is laced with menace.
“Where the clothes I provide for you touch your skin…where you lay your head on the pillow I allowed you…you dare to moan another man’s name in your sleep?”
“Well, unfortunately for you, Warden doesn’t sound so pleasant to moan out.”
“Watch your mouth, Starling. I’m not in the mood to play today.”
“Oh, goodie for me. That means I can be as bratty as I want, and you won’t do a thing.”
“Starling!” His growl rumbles through the room like thunder.
“Quit calling me that!” I rage.
“It’s your name, and it will do you some good to remember who you really are.”
The voices keep looping, dragging me back to places I never wanted to revisit. The crackle of my own screams, the sharp gasp of “No!”—it’s like the room itself is punishing me, forcing me to relive every moment.
I try to shift, but the blindfold keeps my eyes in the dark and the bindings press against my skin, and the silence between the echoes feels heavy and suffocating.
Is this just sound? Or is there some screen hidden in the shadows, flashing images of everything I’ve tried to forget? I’m trapped in darkness—blind, bound and vulnerable.